by Philip Kerr
“I was handing over top secret stuff to the Russians on a weekly basis after that. Looking back on this time, I think he made it easy for me since he was always disappearing up north to his Glasgow constituency. Greenock, I think. Somewhere ghastly like that. I went with him on more than one occasion and felt like a foreigner since I could understand nothing at all of what was said to me. I’m not for a minute suggesting Hector McNeil knew what I was up to. But frankly, my work couldn’t have been easier. People always imagine that spies live lives of derring-do and intrigue. It wasn’t like that at all. No guns, no invisible ink, no disguises. I just lifted the files out of poor old Hector’s filing cabinet, or the yellow boxes that arrived from MI6, took them home in the car, and a chap from the KGB spent all night in my bathroom photographing them; I then placed them back in poor old McNeil’s filing cabinet the following morning. I even had my own key so that I didn’t have to bother him when I needed access to his papers. Once, I accompanied McNeil to the United Nations in New York and I pinched some papers from his ministerial box and had them photographed during his liquid lunch hour. These were mostly cabinet papers, government policy documents—Britain’s position on this, Britain’s position on that, and, rather horribly, which major Russian cities we might bomb if we decided on a first strike against the Soviet Union. The point is that nobody got hurt by what I was doing. Nobody.
“The last thing I want to say is this, and it’s important. What I did really didn’t require much nerve or ingenuity; nor was I required to take any great risks. In the beginning I was nervous, but after a while it became routine. Frankly, if someone such as I could get away with spying on His Majesty’s Government for almost fifteen years, then anyone could. And in my considered opinion Britain is not well served by its security and intelligence services. Not well served at all. It’s small wonder that the FBI doesn’t trust MI6 and MI5. Which is hardly surprising as MI5 and MI6 don’t trust each other one inch. They’re great rivals. Not only that but our security services are riddled with so-called traitors and . . .”
—
Burgess stopped speaking at this point as someone else said something, possibly in Russian, and a few seconds later the tape ended. I turned off the machine and perched on the edge of the refectory table to await the old man’s considered verdict.
“He’s got a bloody nerve,” said Somerset Maugham. “It’s largely thanks to Guy Burgess and Donald Maclean that the Americans don’t trust us anymore.”
“So you do think it’s him?” I said. “The real Guy Burgess.”
“It’s been a few years since I saw him, and many others would know better than me, but it certainly sounds like him, yes. As to whether it was actually recorded on that Russian ship, as he and Maclean fled London for Leningrad, I have no idea. Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Hot stuff, some of it,” muttered Robin. “Don’t you think? All that stuff about Trimalchio’s house. You wouldn’t want that to come out, Uncle Willie.”
“I suppose not,” said Maugham unhappily.
“Though some of it was really quite amusing, what? All that stuff about Clarissa Churchill?”
“The urgent question is, of course,” insisted Maugham, “where the fuck did this tape come from? And how did Harold Heinz Hebel come by it? Did the KGB send a copy to the BBC? If they did, it was obviously never used. I can’t imagine the circumstances in which they would have broadcast the whole thing. I think we’d have heard about that by now, even down here. If it was sent to the BBC, then has the BBC already shared the tape with the intelligence services? And if not, why not? Is it possible that the tape was stolen from the BBC? On the other hand, was the tape given to Hebel by someone in the KGB—someone who is intent on making more mischief in our security services? Or is it someone who just wants to make a ton of money from our security services, as Walter here suggested before? Is it worth two hundred thousand dollars to the British government to stop that tape from being sent to an American radio station?” Maugham relit his pipe and puffed it thoughtfully. “And even more importantly, is it worth two hundred thousand dollars to me? When you buy a tape recording, how do you know there isn’t a copy?”
“To that extent, it’s no different from buying a photograph,” I said. “Even if you buy the negative there’s no way of knowing how many more prints there are.”
“Those are all good questions,” said Robin. “And I wonder how on earth we can answer them?”
“I don’t know,” said Maugham. “But I do know someone who might.”
NINETEEN
I went to the Grand Hôtel in Cap Ferrat, slipped on my black morning coat, and immediately I felt as if proper order had been restored to the world. It was as if I’d become a decent man again; polished and humanized, civil and courteous, and without any time for the darker shadows of feelings that pass for thoughts. Helping guests with their trivial problems, finding room keys, exchanging money, organizing porters, answering the telephone, fixing staff rotas—it was all a reassuringly long way from the tawdry world of homosexual blackmail and Soviet spies. It’s easy to believe civilization still has a bright future when you’re behind the front desk of an expensive hotel. I think I may even have managed a smile. Through the tall French windows at the far end of the lobby the cloudless sky lined the sea like a blue-edged invitation to be calm and collected. I took a deep breath and smiled again. What did I care what Guy Burgess had said to anyone about anything? None of these people mattered to me. Not even me particularly mattered to me.
In the late afternoon the hotel’s swimming instructor, Pierre Gruneberg, stopped by my desk on his way home to tell me that my second swimming lesson would have to wait a while because of the numbers of Medusa jellyfish that were presently in the bay. For some reason I had never learned, not properly, and Pierre was reputed to be an excellent instructor; he’d taught everyone from Picasso to David Niven and he’d promised to teach me, in the sea—it would never have done for me to have used the hotel pool. He always started the first swimming lesson the same way, by asking his students to put their heads in a salad bowl full of water. ‘Learn to swim without getting wet,’ he would say; it didn’t sound any more strange or perverse than what was happening up at the Villa Mauresque.
I didn’t see any sign in the hotel of Harold Hebel, but Anne French showed up for afternoon tea at around five and, by largely ignoring each other, we pretended that the intimacy that had taken place between us hadn’t happened; although it had, of course. I could still recall the turbulent emotions that had poured out of her sensuous mouth and onto the pillows of a capacious brass bed. After I’d watched her cross the floor of the lobby I opened the newspaper and looked for some sedative story that would take my mind off her naked body and what it looked like when she was bent over in front of me like the keenest entomologist. I didn’t find anything that did the job and twenty minutes later I was still marveling at my own erotic good fortune.
At just after eight o’clock I finished work. It would have been my bridge night but instead of going to La Voile d’Or to play cards, I drove east along the Grande Corniche to Èze, whose situation on a height dominating the coast makes it seem more like Hitler’s seaside Berghof instead of a medieval village largely abandoned by its natives. Then again, I’m probably the only man in that part of the world who’d ever be reminded of the Berghof. Sometimes it’s hard to forget about Adolf Hitler. Maybe the history of Germany might have been a little different if our great men had spent less time on mountaintops and a bit more on the beach. In fact, I’m more or less sure of it.
A little farther inland was the village of La Turbie, where Jack and Julia Rose had a villa the size of a modest French hamlet. I parked a little bit short of the cliffside house, lit a cigarette, and settled down to smoke it. Jack’s cream-colored Bentley convertible was in the drive and I wanted to see if I’d remembered his habits correctly; on the nights when he and Julia didn’t turn up for bri
dge he usually went to the casino in Monte Carlo, where he liked to play baccarat. By Spinola’s account, he was pretty good at it, too. His was a fine house on a quiet, winding road, and it was easy to see why Jack and Julia lived there, quite apart from its proximity to Monaco. None of the homes on that road were any less exclusive than a summer palace. A couple of motor scooters buzzed by very loudly, like angry hornets, startling me a little; but as dusk arrived, things quieted down a lot and I closed my eyes. I dreamed about Anne, and my wife, Elisabeth—and for some reason I even dreamed of Dalia Dresner, the movie star, who was staying along the coast in Cannes, at the Carlton. I don’t remember much of what happened in the dream except that it left me feeling sad and wistful. These days all my dreams leave me feeling sad and wistful, probably because they’re only dreams.
About ten o’clock the closing of a car door woke me. The cream-colored Bentley was lit up like a television set and already on the move in the Rose drive. In the moonlight it resembled a boat in the harbor at the Cap. I waited until it had disappeared up the road and then got out of my car and I walked to the front door. There was no knocker but I saw a brass handle the size of a horse stirrup that I was supposed to pull. I pulled it. The bell sounded as if there should have been a cow attached to it, probably in a Swiss meadow. Julia came to the door holding a martini glass, which was maybe why she seemed pleased to see me.
“Walter. What a pleasant surprise. But if you were looking for Jack, I’m afraid you just missed him.”
“That’s a pity. Never mind.”
“He went to play baccarat.”
“I can never understand that. Bridge requires skill. Baccarat is all luck.”
“Jack’s always been lucky. Don’t underestimate luck.”
“Oh, I don’t. Not for a minute.”
“Now that you’re here, would you like to come in for a drink? I just mixed a jug of martinis.”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
She stood aside with a smile and ushered me through a wide hallway into a huge drawing room. The French windows were ajar and a light current of air blew through the room off the sea, just enough to stir the petals that had fallen from a vase of roses on a table. Julia Rose was wearing a ruffed white shirt and tapered wafer-colored pants; there was a little red clasp on her fair hair that was shaped like a cherry; she looked like an ice-cream cone. She poured me a large one from a tall glass pitcher and we sat down on one of the several sofas there were to choose from.
“Nice room. You should send out a missionary sometime. See what new plants and undiscovered tribes he comes home with.”
Julia smiled. “It is kind of large, I guess.”
“But I like Èze and La Turbie. The view of Monaco is the best there is.”
“Nietzsche thought so. He used to stay down the road in Èze.”
“That explains it. Why I feel so very much at home here. It’s the kind of place that mad Germans take to.”
“We like it.”
“You’re English. You’re almost as mad as us Germans.”
“But you always seem so very sane, Walter. I’m afraid I find it hard to imagine the concierge at the Grand Hôtel in Cap Ferrat doing anything mad at all.”
“It’s usually the sanest people who turn out to be the craziest, Julia. Who do the most insane things. That’s how history is made.”
“I can see I’m going to have to keep a close eye on you, Walter.”
“There’s a flip side to that.”
She lit a cigarette and smiled a little nervously. “Oh, you needn’t worry about me, Walter. I come from a family of Lloyd’s insurance brokers. Who are all notoriously sane. And there are very few opportunities for going crazy in Èze.”
“Unless you’re Nietzsche.”
“Did he go insane? I don’t actually know much about Nietzsche.”
“He was mad but not noticeably. At least not in Germany.” I glanced around the room again. “Anyway, it’s a lovely home you have. Living up here must be like heaven. It’s close enough, after all.”
“Have you been here before, Walter? I can’t remember.”
“Once. With Antimo. To play bridge when the Voile had closed for the summer. We lost.”
“Poor Antimo,” she said. “That was awful what happened to him. The police were here, of course. Asking their questions. Did we know anyone who might have had a grudge against him? As if. They asked a lot of questions about you. Yes, they seemed quite interested in you. But Antimo was such a dear, sweet man. I shall miss him enormously.”
“Me, too.”
“Do they have any idea who did it, yet?”
“No,” I said. “Not a clue. But I do.”
“Really? You surprise me. Who?”
“You shouldn’t be surprised. It was you who shot him, Julia.”
“Me? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“No, it’s not ridiculous. You were having an affair with him and you’d threatened to put a hole in yourself when he gave you the cold cut. Spinola took your gun—or at least a gun—away from you to stop you from doing it. I still have that gun at home somewhere. I guess he never figured you might own more than one firearm. Or that you might just shoot him instead of yourself.” I sipped my drink. “This is a good martini, Julia. You’re quite a cocktail barman.”
“From the sound of things you’ve had quite enough to drink already, Walter. I don’t know. What you said—it’s rather offensive. I think you’ve outstayed your welcome. Perhaps you should go now.”
I said nothing.
“Or do I have to call the police?”
“Yes, let’s call them, if you like.”
Now it was Julia who stayed quiet.
“The police found a green chiffon scarf at the scene of the crime,” I said. “Poor Spinola was holding it in his hand when you shot him through the heart at close range. There’s a dress in your closet that’s the perfect match for that chiffon scarf. You wore it one night at La Voile d’Or. Maybe you remember that I picked it up when you dropped it on the ground and gave it back to you. I even caught the name on the label. It was Christian Dior. Same as the dress, I’ll bet money on it. Although not as much as you spent buying it. I’m sure the police will find it very interesting. It’s very hard to shoot someone at close range and not get blood on yourself.”
“I think you’re mistaken.” But her eyes were welling up with tears.
“No, I have a good memory. Believe it or not it’s part of my job to know what a lady is wearing. In case she needs to go shopping for something important. Like a new chiffon scarf. I wouldn’t advise it now. The cops will be paying attention to that kind of thing. In fact, I’d steer clear of most of the expensive ladies’ shops on the Riviera for a while, in case someone remembers you. Besides, green is really not your color, Julia. Take it from me. Blue would be much better on you.”
Julia Rose let out a sigh that sounded like a diver checking his breathing apparatus.
“Oh Jesus Christ,” she whispered. “What am I to do?”
“Do? There’s nothing to do. All you can do now is tell me what happened.”
I let her cry for several minutes.
“I’m so sorry,” she sobbed.
“I can imagine. But you don’t need to apologize to me. Even if he was my bridge partner. And a damn good one, I might add.”
“I loved him. I loved him so much. He was the love of my life. I don’t think I’ll ever get over this as long as I live.”
“I believe you. But how long were you lovers?”
“Three years. I wanted to leave Jack and marry Antimo, who wouldn’t hear of it. He said he couldn’t afford to get married and that he preferred things the way they were. Easy to say if you don’t live with Jack. I told him I didn’t care about money, but he didn’t believe me.
“Then, out of the blue, he wanted to end t
hings between us for good. I found myself unable to handle that. I was going to shoot myself in his apartment. That was the plan. I know it sounds stupidly, ridiculously melodramatic, Walter. You must think I’m mad. I suppose I was mad. Still am, if I’m honest. But love does that to people sometimes. I loved him so much I’d decided I couldn’t live without him. I wanted him to know that. I mean, really know that. It was late and I let myself into his apartment with the key he’d given me when we were lovers. He was in bed and got up when he realized I was there. We started to talk, I asked him to change his mind, and he refused. Then I took the gun out of my bag. I never meant to shoot him at all. Not for a minute. You must believe me, Walter. I tried to press the gun against my heart and pull the trigger but he wrestled it away and then it went off. Just once. And killed him. After that I just panicked and ran away.”
I nodded. “Do you still want to kill yourself?”
“No. I don’t think so. I’m not sure. Frankly, I try not to think about it.”
“No, please don’t ever do that. Listen, forget about what the priests and psychiatrists tell you. Take it from one who knows. Sometimes it’s only the thought of suicide that gets me through the night. It can be a real consolation.”
“I never know when you’re joking.”
“I have the same problem. Tell me, does Jack know anything about this?”
“No. If he suspects anything he hasn’t said as much.”
“You’re sure about that?”
She nodded. “Jack drinks a lot. He doesn’t notice very much at all. Except the cards he’s been dealt. Somehow he always manages to pay attention to them.”
“What happened to the gun?”
“I still have it upstairs. And there is blood on the dress, you’re right.”
“Go and get the gun and the dress. Oh, and Spinola’s apartment key if you still have it.”
“Are you going to turn me in to the police?”
